Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
My Uber arrives and stops in front of me.
“I-I have t-to go,” I say, cringing as my old stammer threatens to sabotage me. I take a deep breath. “My Uber is here.” It’s a patently ridiculous excuse. I could easily talk to her during the drive. But I can’t hear Charlotte’s voice and not want to do the exact opposite of setting her free. I hear her voice, and I want to claim her. Make her mine. Put my ring on her finger and give her my name and fill her belly with my babies.
“Okay, don’t be a stranger, Auggie,” Charlotte says. “I got used to talking to you, every day of my life. This past week of not talking to you has felt like a year.”
“For me, too. I promise we’ll talk more, now that I’m back from my trip.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.” I can practically hear her smile through the phone line. “Bye, Auggie. Congrats about Lucky. You did a good thing for him.”
“I know I did. Bye, Charlotte. Have a blast in the new job. Keep me posted.”
32
AUGGIE
Idrag my sad ass through the front door of my condo from Tessa and Ryan’s, ditch my suitcase inside my door, and head straight into the shower. Usually, showers do wonders to lift my dark mood. Not this time.
From my shower, I head to my kitchen to see if there’s anything to eat. There’s not. Between my stay at Ryan and Tessa’s house and then my various trips, I’ve been gone almost two weeks. I open a can of tuna, eat that right out of the can, brush my teeth, and collapse into my bed.
When I wake up, I’ve slept for over twelve hours. I’m not surprised. I didn’t set an alarm and my brain felt no need to get going. Why would it? I’ve got no studying to do; this is the last weekend of spring break. I’ve got no Lucky to walk or feed or play with. Or cuddle. Or talk to. Or look at and think of all the times my grandma snuggled with him and sang to him, “Lucky, you’re my lucky charm!”
And most tragic of all, there’s no Charlotte McDougal living next door. No Charlotte McDougal bursting through my front door with a zany new idea for a show. No Charlotte McDougal making me laugh, or turning me on, or just hanging out with me and making me feel seen like never before. No Charlotte McDougal to light up my life with her sparkling smile and make me give a fucking shit about a goddamned thing.
What have I done? I want Charlotte to be happy and safe, even if it’s without me. That’s what I want most. But what if me telling her I love her wouldn’t have held her back? What if me telling her that would have made her change course, yes, but because she would have been thrilled to do it? I can’t imagine it, honestly. Every indication has been that I caught feelings, and Charlotte didn’t. Not as much as me, anyway. But what if I’m wrong about that?
I head to the kitchen and mix up a pre-packaged protein shake with ice that almost makes me hurl, and then head out to the campus pool for a long swim. I’m hoping I’ll be able to sweat Charlotte out of me. Shake these blues away with some exercise-induced endorphins. No such luck.
As I pass Charlotte’s closed door on my way back from campus, I can barely look at it. It hurts too much to know she’s not in there and never will be again. They always say you don’t know you’re in the happiest time of your life, while you’re in it. You can only figure that out in retrospect, looking back. But in this case, that’s not true. I knew it then. I know it now.
After another shower, I head back downstairs to grab some essential groceries and a sandwich. And on my way back into the building, I notice the wall of mailboxes and remember I’ve got a week’s worth of mail in mine. It’s no big deal. I never get anything important through snail mail, anyway. All my bills come to me electronically these days. But I guess I should clear out the box of mailers and crap for the next round that’s bound to arrive.
When I open my small mailbox, I’m shocked to discover it’s chock full of stuff that’s not mail: the video camera Charlotte and I bought online after Lloyd Graham’s failed to function; also, its power cord; a cassette in a hard plastic case; a large manila envelope; and, last but not least, a small, white envelope with my name handwritten on its front in Charlotte’s pretty, swirling hand. Predictably, there are also some mailers and other inconsequential stuff in my mailbox, but I’m far too intrigued by the other stuff to pay that any mind.